Yoshimitsu Angel of Vengeance
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: Who is the man behind the mask? What is the history of the sword that absorbs evil? What ties are there between the modern and the 16th century incarnations of the Manji warriors known as Yoshimitsu? Soul Calibur/Tekken Crossover. Enjoy!
1. Prologue

**Author's Note - I do not own the rights for the Tekken or Soul Calibur series. The events and characters mentioned in this fan-fiction are fictional. Any likeness to actual people, living or dead, is unintentional.**

**(This is the first chapter. I'm hardly considering ending it so soon. Will be back with more shortly)**

Prologue

Murasame Kenji stared out at the twi-lit scenery of the city of Kyoto.

It was his, he knew that of a certain. He was in control. His agents worked on the low levels: informants in the Yakuza, club owners, money launderers. He knew the system well. He knew that by controlling what the little man did and how much blood was spilt on the streets, he could move even the movers and shakers.

Like the Mishimas.

The most powerful family in Japan, controlling the most powerful corporation in the world: the Mishima Zaibatsu. Their goals were on a much larger scale, with billions more in yen, euros and dollars spent monthly than Murasame's people made in a year, and that was nothing to this giant.

But it was different for Kenji. He did not see the world as just corporations, money to be spent. He was raised up on the streets, clawing his way to the top of the societal food chain on a path of dead bodies. He knew how to control people, how to make them fearful of the unknown, and through that fear, give themselves to him.

Which was why he did not fear the Mishima Zaibatsu. His own Murasame Corporation was big enough to fend for themselves: getting thousands of dollars off of playing the "scum of the earth" paid off, and Kenji knew this to be true.

Of course, there was always competition. The Mishima Zaibatsu didn't like competition, and did what ever they could to put Kenji under their control. When "diplomacy" failed, the two groups began a corporative cold war. Neither side engaged in acts of violence - nothing to alert the "authorities" or the people about, let them think the law is in control - but they were at war nonetheless: which isn't to say Murasame's supporters didn't end up dead once in a while.

They'd just find a way to pay the Zaibatsu back for it.

But Kenji's most recent troubles didn't come from the Zaibatsu.

It was a small-time clan of eccentrics who called themselves the Manji-tou. To the common people and those on the streets who were less guilty than the money-launderers and murderers - for nobody was innocent in Kenji's line of work - these "eccentrics" were heroes, who stuck it to the "man" and kept them safe from harm.

The truth, as the upper-class corporations and powerful moguls like Murasame Kenji and Mishima Heihachi knew it to be, was that the Manji-tou were a nuisance at best. They stole money, food and medical supplies from these corporations and distributed them to the poor. It was nothing to get the police after them, just a needless flaunting of the ridiculous power these corporations held. But the real problem was what they did.

These "eccentric" thieves spread their idealistic lies among the people. They said that the corporations were playing them for fools, that the system was being used against them, that they had a choice, that they didn't have to fear them. With fear and intimidation taken out of play, things got messy.

Kenji never liked messy. Things were always best done neatly and orderly.

From a hostile take-over of a small-time corporation to the execution of a captured enemy.

Clean, neat and orderly.

Kenji's pensive gaze upon the city lights was distrupted briefly by the sound of metal upon metal.

It was not very loud, but his room was so quiet and still that he could hear it.

Something was in the room with him.

"It's you, isn't it?" he spoke aloud.

If there was someone there, they did not answer him.

"I applaud you on your foolishness." Kenji began. "A true assassin would have killed me by now and not wasted time letting himself get caught." A self-confident chuckle escaped his lips. "But you Manji-tou refuse to let the past die. You still cling to outdated principles like honor and chivalry, don't you?"

Once again, nothing.

"You know, we're not as different as you may think." Kenji said, lighting up a cigarette. "We both are idealists." He put the filtered end between his lips, inhaled quickly and released with a pleased sigh a puff of white smoke. "We hold to honor and respect."

Kenji reached for a tray at the side of his desk. His personal oiran had delivered it there a few moments ago. There was a bottle of sake upon it.

"That's what this is all about, actually. You see..." Kenji started to pour himself some of the still-warm sake. "...I hold the respect, the fear, if you will, of the people. In fear of my guns, they will support the one who tells them that he's going to make it all better...me." Kenji picked up the small cup and brought it before his eyes.

"And, as long as they support me, I tell them that everything is just right." He smiled. "It is about honor, you see. Honor your leaders." He emptied his cup.

"However, your sense of justice is...horribly misplaced." He poured himself a second cup of sake. "You see, those in charge made the laws for the people, so they know how to run themselves. They are not bound by the laws, my friend. Laws are the tools by which our rule is controlled."

The clank of metal upon metal proved that Kenji was not alone. He smiled.

"Do you have a name?" he asked his guest. "Not that it matters anyhow. Within a few minutes, my security will realize what is going on and you will be dead."

The unsheathing of a sword could be heard from directly behind Kenji's seat.

A little too close.

But he knew what his security knew. They would pay if they were late or did not arrive.

"Are you a mute?" he asked. "Did they send someone who can't speak to kill me?" A laugh erupted from Kenji's throat. He prepared to finish off his second cup of sake.

A soft, shimmering reflection of two, glowing red orbs appeared in the window out of which Kenji was looking.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, almost gasping.

The blood-stained end of a tachi erupted out of Kenji's stomach, and then disappeared almost as soon as it had appeared.

The crash of a broken cup echoed in the deadened stillness of the room.

The hiss of a blade returning to its sheath broke the silence like a sonic boom.

A low, mechanical voice growled the answer to the dead man's question.

"Retribution..."

The door opened behind him.

It was not security that made its way inside the room.

Just a lone figure.

"Well done, Yoshimitsu." a large, boisterous voice said. "With the head of the Murasame Corporation out of the way, the Mishima Zaibatsu can now claim control over the most influential of Kyoto's business enterprises."

The figure receeded into the darkness away from the voice.

"I know you too well, Manji." the voice said. "You have no taste for politics. What is it you really want?"

Silence.

"Money, isn't it? For your clan, and for the rabble you spoon-feed into helplessness day by day." The voice sounded sinister in its denouncement. But no response was heard. "Your silent treatment doesn't work on me, ninja."

A low hiss came from the figure. No noise was made, but Heihachi Mishima could tell that the figure was closer now. Those glowing red eyes were his indication.

"Tournament." Yoshimitsu hissed.

A laugh came from the head of the Mishima Zaibatsu. "You? Compete in a dishonorable fight with mugs from around the world? You wouldn't last a day in Iron Fist."

Heihachi paused a moment, thinking to himself. A new thought came into his head. He heard rumors of a young Japanese man who signed up for the Iron Fist tournament. If this ninja could engage him, it would be a sufficient test...

"On second thought," Heihachi said greedily. "You would definitely bring some color to the tournament. A fair exchange, you deliver to me Kyoto, and I give you a spot in the greatest tournament in the world."

The eyes faded for a moment, then the deep, mechanical voice spoke again.

"'Pride goeth before destruction...'"


	2. The Deal

Chapter 1 - The Deal

Rain fell upon the city of Kyoto.

Yoshimitsu was perched upon a building top. It was getting harder, now, with the way of humankind and their technology, to travel any great distances without being detected. But even so, Yoshimitsu was a seasoned warrior and a master at the arts of ninjitsu.

Though, it was obvious, he was no ninja.

The ninja wore nothing more than black robes that would make his approach silent, allowing for a swift and silent execution. The armor Yoshimitsu wore was anything but quiet. The ninja used knives, shuriken and poison as his weapons: the Manji-tou blade, the heart and soul of his clan, was a blade of honor. A warrior's weapon.

Legends of its origins within the clan dated back to the 16th century. A time of great strife when war and bloodshed ravaged the land, not only in Japan but in Europe as well. Even in the New World, where cultures had existed peacefully for thousands of years, death was being introduced to them.

Yoshimitsu could not recall all the events that were told to him by the elders, but sometimes he found himself enduring strange visions, as they were. Or perhaps they were flashbacks. In his mind he saw images of a time long gone, of faces that were totally strange to him, since he had never seen them before...

And yet...familiar...

He noticed that the visions always seemed to come while he held the blade of Manji-tou. But duty drove him to keep it with him. Clan tradition held that when the blade was to be passed down to the next leader, the old leader would committ seppuku and his blade would be passed on to him. If not, when he became too old to continue, his chosen successor would honorably take his life and the blade would pass on to the successor.

Though he was into his early sixties, Yoshimitsu was hardly ready to be giving up the clan that easily.

Therefore, he bore the blade with him always.

Which made the visions even worse.

He tried to stay focused on the Buddhist shrine, nestled within the park down in the city.

Even as his eyes grew heavy, his body falling numb to the world and his senses fading...

They returned once again to him...

"Sensei, I have come as you requested." the young man bowed before the aged master.

The old man motioned towards the wall to have it sit down before him. The younger looked with pity upon his blind master, and did as "he" was instructed.

"Iga, bring me the scroll." the sensei spoke.

A young woman, who had before been kneeling some ways back, walked forward. She placed a scroll in the hand of the aged master. The young man noticed the seal that had been broken bore the symbol of a flower of five petals: the mukou.

"This is perhaps the most important mission you might undertake, young one." the old man said. "The lord of the Oda clan has asked for me to meet with him at his castle in friendship."

"Honorable sensei, it could be a trap." the young man said.

"Eat." the old man insisted. The young man did as he was instructed.

"I am too old to travel, my young friend. That is why I have decided that you..." He pointed at the young man. "...will go in my stead."

"I am humbled by the magnitude of my mission, master."

"No need to be preening, young one. It is time for you to undertake true challenges." The old man gazed with sightless eyes towards a suit of armor that stood upon its frame next to them. "Soon, my child, you will rule the Manji clan. As such, you must learn diplomacy, which is why I am sending you as our representative."

The young man nodded crisply, saying "Hai!" in affirmation. His food done, he bowed before his master and was dismissed to his room to prepare.

As the young man was in his chambers, dressing himself in his suit of armor and the colors of his clan, the woman, Iga, made her way to his room, with her eyes averted.

"I wish for your swift return, my lord." she said with a smile.

"Iga-san," he began. "I promise that when I return, we will be married."

The young woman raised her eyes, beaming with her brightest smile. "May the spirits of your noble ancestors be with you on your mission."

He nodded his head, not a full bow, but enough to show his respect to her as well. His eyes, however, did not leave contact with hers.

The face suddenly faded away, and he found himself facing a dark and dreary world that rained with water everywhere.

Another face was before his own.

An emotionless mask that was somewhere between an oni and a fox.

"Sensei, wake up." a woman's voice spoke from beneath the mask.

A red light shone once again from the mask of her master.

All was well, thank the ancestors.

"Are you well?" she asked him.

A simple nod was all the answer she needed.

"The clan is assembled, we're ready for the meeting." the woman said.

The old man nodded, getting to his feet and then made his way off the building.

Hardly what one would consider a worthy meeting place.

It was an alley, plain and simple. But this alley had served as a home for so many of the people of Kyoto, not to mention members of the Kyoto-ring of the Manji-tou. They were easily discernable from the other people here by their outlandish livery and armaments. Katanas, daggers and lances hung at their sides or on their backs. They were sometimes fully robed, or wearing salvaged kevlar armor, or even mail and plate.

As a rule, none of them were allowed to show their faces. This was another way the fellow Manji-tou knew who were theirs: the members were masked, veiled, hooded or their face was obscured in some way. But they knew they could trust the people here. Their enemies did not know where to find them, and the people almost worshipped the Manji-tou.

The two figures landed in the alleyway. Their arrival brought all of the Manji to their feet, bowing in reverence to their leader: the taller and older of the two figures. He was garbed in plate-mail and wore an oni-mask, out of whose eye-holes a red light glimmered. At his side was the sacred tachi of the Manji-clan, and when he spoke, the sound was of a thousand demons chanting as one.

"So," a Manji warrior who wore a large straw hat and was covered in a robe. "Did the meeting go well?"

A nod was all the leader gave to his subordinate.

"Sensei," one of the others, wearing salvaged kevlar and a ski-mask adorned with ancient Shinto characters, spoke up. "Why are we even doing this? The Mishima Zaibatsu cannot be trusted. Assassinating one of their enemies would seem to be joining us to their side."

"Our goal is not to ally with the Zaibatsu." the woman wearing the fox-mask, Kunimitsu, answered. "We enter the tournament only as a front. Our goal is the prize money."

"What do you mean?" the second one asked. "We're to win this dishonorable Iron Fist tournament?"

"The sensei has charged us with the task of infiltrating the Zaibatsu and stealing not only the prize but all of the Zaibatsu's monetary assets." Kunimitsu declared. "Only one has been selected to enter the tournament and fight on our behalf."

"Who has been chosen?" a third Manji, dressed in traditional samurai armor, spoke up.

The clan leader rose to his feet, his masked head lowered.

"Why does the sensei have to go up against the Zaibatsu and their puppets?" asked the second Manji. "He's too old to be fighting our battles for us."

A second later, there was a flash, a sudden blur of light, and the Manji who spoke found himself pinned against the side of a dumpster, the oni-mask of the clan leader just inches away from his own. The blade of the clan tachi was perilously close to the subordinate's exposed neck.

"Age means nothing on the battlefield." Yoshimitsu growled with his demon's voice.

Another flash and the leader was gone.

One by one, the other Manji dispersed.

Meeting adjorned.

A mother sheltered her baby from the rain. They had been senselessly evicted due to recent events. Her employer was dead, and the new owner of his company demanded she pay the rent.

She had no money. Her previous employer, a Mr. Murasame, kept her as his oiran, allowing her to live in one of his owned appartments - more of a whorehouse - if she submitted to his advances. The new owner had other interests at heart: money. She could not pay, so she could no longer stay.

But that was the way of life.

Cruel and short.

A figure appeared from out of the darkness and rain. It was bent over and had a large straw hat obscuring the head. The woman retreated into the side of the alley, but the figure must have seen this for it stopped and knelt down. In the blink of an eye, it had vanished.

...leaving a small brown package lying there.

The woman carefully made her way towards it and opened it up.

Inside was some food and several yen.

Yoshimitsu had retreated further into the alley. It was the least he could do.

Hunger meant nothing to him. He had gone months without food. The people were not so disciplined, and children died without nourishment. His old heart would not let the people suffer so, and even the little kindnesses went very far.

But the horrendous cries she made...

He had heard that heart-wrenching noise before...

Darkness slowly overcame him, as he strived to remember the time...

The time...

"My master will see you now." the majordomo said.

A sharp nod came from the young warrior, and the wooden screen was opened.

He was ushered into the room. The young warrior knelt before the lord of the Oda clan.

"Servant, tell me why your master refuses to come to me in person?" a deep, menacing voice said from before the young man.

Fortunately, the Oda lord could not see that the eyes of the warrior looked up at him from beneath the mask he wore.

The Oda lord was an imposing figure. He was tall enough that the foreign missionaries needed to look up to him. He was not in his armor, but wore robes in dark shades of black, blue and violet. The symbol of the Oda clan sat upon his chest like a medal of pride, and the young man could tell that something was simmering beneath the surface of the reserved mannerism of the lord of the Oda clan.

"My master is an old man," the warrior said. "As a loyal servant, he sent me in his stead."

A disgruntled "hmph" came from the mouth of the Oda lord. He then clapped his hands and his servants brought forth food and sake.

"You must be hungry from your journey." he said. "It is no short distance from Owari to your honored temple at the base of Mount Fuji."

"Hai." was all the answer the young warrior gave as the servants brought out the food. The two ate their rice in silence, both with eyes upon each other warily.

"So, Manji," Oda said. "You know why I summoned you."

"My master did not tell me your reason," the young man said. "But he did say that it was of the utmost importance."

"Your master is correct in that." the Oda lord began. "There is no power in the Shogunate. This land is ripe to be seized by a man of ambition." He looked at the ashigaru of the Manji clan. "I am such a man. However, I require the loyalty of all the local daimyos before my rule can be established. Your clan has remained hidden for many hundred years: the only known indication of your whereabouts being the temple at Mount Fuji.

"I know that the Manji-tou are powerful, despite their desire for secrecy. But think, ashigaru, what we could accomplish together. When I have unitied this land under the Oda clan, it will see an end to the chaos that has gripped our land. All that I ask from the Manji-tou is their allegiance."

The young man was stunned. It dawned upon him just how serious this confrontation was, and how important his position was as the emissary.

He swallowed before speaking again.

"I am honored by the favor my lord Oda showers upon the Manji-tou." he began. "However, it is our greatest desire to remain hidden, to live as we have always done, without the interference from the outside."

"You would turn a deaf ear to the troubles of this land?" the Oda lord said, almost with a threatening, paternal tone to his voice.

"The Manji-tou help the common man, but in secret." the young man said. "We shall continue to do so, that the people will not revolt against the daimyos. But as to an allegiance, I, on behalf of my master, must humbly decline."

A "hmph" came from the Oda lord, whose face was darkened.

"Very well." the lord said. "I wish it would be otherwise, but you have made your choice. Return to your master."

"May the ancestors protect you, daimyo-Oda." the young man said.

The Oda lord nodded his head, dismissing the young man. As he was making his way out of the castle, the lord of Oda said to his generals at his side:

"Send out your fastest rider. Give the order." 


	3. The Broken

**(Author's Note: The last one ended on a cliff-hangar...and I don't go back to it in this one! Don't worry, you'll find out what happens, eventually...)**

**Chapter Two - The Broken**

Night in Tokyo.

The city was blazing with light. As with the great metropolises of the West, it seemed that one could not sleep at night with the lights from every building, the horns of every car, the hustle and bustle of people doing things at the wee hours of the night. It was chaos, but orderly chaos.

Far beyond the lights, but not so far that their glare could not be seen from afar, the darkened figure looked out upon that chaos.

It was orderly chaos, indeed. For here the selfish, bestial tendencies of mankind came out the most: under cover of darkness. Even among those who believed not in gods or spirits, they did their mischief at night; almost out of fear that the sun were a god itself, that had eyes to see the wickedness they did in the daylight, and so hid their faces from it in the darkness.

But Yoshimitsu was a creature of the darkness, one who brought the justice of the dawn with him.

He was a hope for the people, he knew that.

But he could not be that hope if he were so weakened.

The monk was frustrated. It was not something that Buddhist monks often lost their tempers. However, it was night, and he was young, and had been roused from his sleep by the frightful "demon" that so often called upon his master. It was only natural that he would be a little agitated.

But he knew his master did not approve, and also knew that this particular visitor never came for fickle reasons.

If Yoshimitsu came to his master, the elder monk, the young monk knew that it was for an important reason.

"Father, wake up. He is here." the young man said.

The old monk did not need to be told twice who "he" was. That strange man had been visiting him almost on cue three or five times a month. Their meetings occured always in the same fashion: the monk sat on his bed, while the stranger stood obscured behind a screen.

Tonight was no different.

The old monk woke up from his sleep and dismissed the pupil. On the other side of the screen, he could see his guest. He was wrapped in a cloak, and wore a large straw hat.

"How do you fare, my old friend?" the monk said.

There was no answer from the mysterious one behind the screen.

"The visions again?" the monk asked.

A nod was all the obscured figure gave as an answer.

But that was all that was enough.

"My answer is the same as it was the last time you came here." the old monk said.

There was a profound pause, during which no sound pierced the stillness.

"How?" the Manji warrior asked. "How can lifeless steel have memories?"

"Ah, but therein you are wrong, my friend." the priest said. "The sword has a soul, like any other thing in this world."

The warrior spoke no more.

"You prepare to enter Iron Fist in the morning?" the monk asked.

A nod was all the answer Yoshimitsu gave.

"Be wary, my friend." the monk said. "A decision to join the King of Iron Fist Tournament is not lightly-made."

The Manji nodded. He turned his back on the monk and was heading out from the room. As he did, he paused just before he left the door, glancing back at the old Buddhist priest, from whom he had learned the path to enlightenment.

"Arigato." was all that Yoshimitsu said.

A large crowd of men, women and various other bizarre creatures gathered out in front of a large gymnasium-like structure. This building was the dojo for the Preliminary Stage of the King of Iron Fist Tournament. Those gathered out front were in line to join up.

Apparently the structure was not open yet.

But those gathered did their best to keep themselves occupied. Several broke out into mini-sparing groups to hone their skill in hand-to-hand combat.

Few noticed the demon-masked warrior shrouded in a thick robe who blended in well towards the side of the group.

After a few more minutes of this, the doors opened and they walked into a large atrium. At one end of the room there was a stage, upon which stood a man in a suit and tie with bleached white hair.

"Welcome to the King of Iron Fist Tournament." the man said to them all through a microphone. The chatter in the room died down as he began to speak. "My name is Lee Chaolan, I represent the Mishima Zaibatsu. You have all made the decision to join the Tournament: let me be perfectly clear that there is no going back after this point. Win or lose, you are Iron Fist."

A hand rose up from the audience.

"Why does the head of the Zaibatsu refuse to greet us himself?" a tall American male with blond hair asked.

"Mr. Mishima is a very busy man," Chaolan said. "He leaves the overseeing of the tournament to me, his representative and...his son."

Yoshimitsu noted a smile of pride, bordering on arrogance, upon the young man's face.

But something struck him as odd. The young man was not Japanese, as the Mishima family was, so how could he be Heihachi's son?

Adoption? That was clearly a viable option.

But why did Heihachi Mishima waste money (though it would've been no detriment due to the ridiculous amounts he received daily) on an adoption when, at least, several years ago, he had a wife and son as it was?

Preliminaries were over. A good majority of the fighters weren't prepared, and Yoshimitsu never even drew his sword during the fights. It was hardly honorable, giving these under-skilled neophytes scars with his blade of honor. Let them increase their skill in training and then return: then they would have the honor of being pierced by the tachi-blade of the Manji-tou.

But for the most part, Yoshimitsu spent his time away from the other fighters after the matches. He did not socialize much - not that anyone wanted to socialize with, what some of the more stupid fighters started calling, a "space ninja."

He had another reason as well for being secretive...

Despite being an old man and something of an eccentric, Yoshimitsu was well-versed on the technology of his day.

So it was no issue that he could easily hack into the highly-protected Mishima Zaibatsu mainframe.

Rather than find a computer where his approach would be obviously monitored, the Manji-leader used a wave-detector built into his helmet to locate the frequency of the Mishima network.

The ridiculous perjoratives that he was called by the ignorant fighters was not entirely unmerited. Despite his skills of ninjitsu and sword-play, Yoshimitsu was a cyber-tech as well. His mask had a built-in nano-computer, at least ten years or more ahead of its time.

It picked up the signal from the Mishima network.

Totally undetected.

From a hidden location somewhere on the tournament grounds, Yoshimitsu began a background check on Heihachi Mishima himself.

The warrior-politician, son of world-renown martial arts master Jinpachi Mishima, deposed his father upon coming of age and took control of his father's organization: the Mishima Zaibatsu. Over the years, its actions became more aggressive, with the Zaibatsu claiming control of military and technology in many third world countries, as well as having influence in the developed countries as well.

His fighting record was impeccable. Daring to push himself out from under the shadow of his father, Heihachi Mishima had become a master of his own style of Mishima Karate, and was undefeated in almost every battle he took part of: the only exception being a draw brought between him and a Judo champion from the United States of America: Paul Phoenix.

Known relatives included Jinpachi Mishima, believed to be dead, and his son Lee Chaolan.

Obviously adopted, Yoshimitsu thought.

There was no official criminal record listed, though it did state that the Zaibatsu had been linked to several nefarious actions.

The Manji-warrior tapped the side of his mask, turning the image to another screen. Yoshimitsu was now examining the fighters, attempting to learn who he'd have to face. His goal was not to win the tournament: there would be no need once they stole the prize money. But he had to at least make it to the Semi-Finals, and had to know which other fighters might make it there as well.

He saw the file on Paul Phoenix. An American who became recognized in the US for combining Judo and Karate-styles together effectively. The fighting record was almost an exact match of Heihachi's: undefeated except in regards to that one draw. A meager criminal record, involving drunk fighting, speeding and a few other misdemeanors followed.

But that was of no concern. Doubtless, this Paul Phoenix was a champion, even so early on. To make it to the Semi-Finals, one had to pass the Regional and National levels. Yoshimitsu quickly pulled up the ranking charts, and say that he was on his way towards Regional level. To win Nationals and be eligible for Semi-Finals, he had to beat everyone from his country. Looking through the list of Japanese contestants, other than himself, two names stood out.

Ganryu.

Kazuya Mishima.

The Manji-leader opened the file on Ganryu. He was a Sumo-wrestler, of some renown until his title and reputation were stripped from him when it was discovered he had been fixing fights in his favor. A wave of disgust passed through Yoshimitsu's body. Though he obviously had embraced the modern lifestyle, his adherence to the traditions of his Japanese past were never fully gone, and this blatant disregard of the code of the Sumo was something Yoshimitsu could not tolerate. Looking down on the criminal record, Yoshimitsu saw that this Ganryu was involved in even more dishonest and criminal activities.

It was angering to say the least. Yoshimitsu checked the ranking again, hoping that he would be able to fight this Ganryu. He would show that fat bastard the nature of justice: Manji-style.

His gaze returned to the name Kazuya Mishima.

Who could this be? A relative of Heihachi? There had been no listing for a Kazuya under the family/relatives of Heihachi.

Fortunately, there was a birth-date on Kazuya's profile.

December 11, 1958.

Yoshimitsu then accessed the newspaper files from Tokyo: Heihachi Mishima's home-city. He had to see if there were anything related to a "birth-date" or some kind of event where the names Heihachi and Kazuya mingled.

Suddenly, an entry appeared.

But it was no birth-date.

It was a head-line.

"March 15th, 1964. Kazuya Mishima, son of world-renown martial artist and businessman Heihachi Mishima, mysteriously disappeared on the morning of March 15th. Heihachi, owner of Japan's most powerful and wealthy corporation, the Mishima Zaibatsu, was unavailable for interview, but stated that he, quote, 'had no son.'"

So, Yoshimitsu thought, this young Japanese fighter was some kind of disowned son returned to, as far as he could tell, win the tournament and avenge his father's disowning. This, he saw, was no better than the Sumo-wrestler's dishonorable conduct.

Just another reason to loathe that dog Heihachi.

But Yoshimitsu needed to know the full story.

Heihachi was not old.

Not yet, at least.

But even so, he looked, in the least, weathered.

He was bald save for hair on his temples that shot backwards and up like shark-fins. A beard was upon his face, thin and well-groomed, and he was wearing his favorite gi: all black, with a red sash and the emblem of the tiger upon the reverse.

"Hmph." he said, hearing the faintest sound of socks upon the wooden dojo floor. He knew he had a visitor, and from the clanking he heard of the armor, it was none other than that meddlesome Manji-fool.

"What do you want?" he asked.

There was silence. Heihachi wondered if the ninja actually was there. Turning around, he saw the armored, masked visage of Yoshimitsu.

"Speak, or get the hell out of here." he grumbled at the Manji.

At last, the mechanical, menacing voice spoke the name:

"Kazuya Mishima."

"Never heard of him." was the response.

The tell-tale ring of a sword being unsheathed buzzed in Heihachi's ears.

"Guards!" he shouted. But all that came in answer was cold steel pressed against his cheek.

"I don't know who you're talking about." Heihachi answered, trying his best to sound tough, intimidating and unimpressed by Yoshimitsu's obvious skill at overcoming the guards, and silently and without sounding the alarm at that.

A photograph dropped to the floor in front of Heihachi. The photograph was a photo-copy of a 1964-edition of the Tokyo Times. The headline read "Millionare's Son Missing."

"He was my son." came the answer, with almost a hint of contempt.

Silence followed, as the two stood: enemy and enemy. The one held his sword at the neck of the other, who kept his cool, though he knew all too well that the former could take his life as easily as if he were swatting a fly from off his shoulder.

"Do you know of the tiger?" Heihachi said. The point of the sword gently tapped the back of his gi. Taking advantage, Heihachi rose to his feet, but the sword was now brought to his neck. He did not flinch, or betray one look of fear. To the contrary, hate was in his eyes.

"Tigers push their cubs off of ravines, and only raise the ones who clamber back up." Heihachi began. "My son was weak, and so I threw him off a cliff. If he were a true Mishima, he would have climbed back up." Heihachi let out his disgruntled "hmph." "Now piss off."

The Manji leader took a step back, into the shadows.

He had left the dojo, once again, without a sound.

Regionals flew by almost as swiftly as had the Preliminaries. In no time, the National level of the Tournament would be upon them. At this point, the news coverage and attention to the tournament had exploded. Bets were being placed on every match, people lined out in the hallways, dressed in mock-ups of their favorite fighters or sporting their colors, and cheering their names.

Yoshimitsu sat alone in a deserted locker room that serviced the fighters. He never had use of these, but for once, the building-tops didn't offer much in regards to privacy.

Especially on a crowded day such as this.

Once again, he heard the whispers of the sword that he bore. Fortunately, he hadn't any more flash-backs since before he met with his friend the monk. But the voices that eminated from the Sword were driving him mad: he couldn't concentrate, and worried that, one day, he would be stalking his prey and, in a fit of madness, yell at the sword to silence itself and thus he would lose the element of surprise.

And more...

Footsteps sounded behind him. Soft, silent ones. They were too light to be any man's footprints: even the Chinese contestant, Marshall Law, had heavier footfalls than those.

It was definitely female.

"Master," Kunimitsu whispered. "I know that this is not a very appropriate way to meet with you, but I have news. The clan is assembled as ordered. We will strike after your next battle. Once the battle is won, you will head off the main charge while I take out the security to the vaults."

Yoshimitsu nodded.

"There was something else on my mind, though." she said. "I know that we are enemies with the Mishima Zaibatsu, but is that all-together wise?"

The leader turned his masked face to that of his apprentice.

"This corporation is very powerful, it has the potential to be a beacon of hope for the people." she continued. "Even if you choose to go through with the plan, we can use the Mishima Zaibatsu's funds as collateral to striking a deal with Heihachi. We can join forces with the Zaibatsu, and together, we will rid the world of all its..."

A hand rose from her master, which meant silence.

"Master, I think it would be foolish to deny this chance." she said, frustration in her voice. "Think of the millions of people we could help, with the Zaibatsu's support..."

The hand of silence rose once again. Yoshimitsu rose to his feet and shook his head in denial.

"To side with the enemy of justice," he said. "is the death of the principles of the Manji-tou."

Kunimitsu bowed her head to her master, who then walked off down the hallway towards the arena.

"As you wish." she said, watching him leave.

The square arena was surrounded by the crowds on all sides. Screaming, shouting, chanting; all of it filled the room. Flashes of light from photographers, video-cameras, along with the already blinding spot-lights, made the crowd seem like a dark mirage floating on the edge of existence.

Yoshimitsu made his way onto the arena. On the other side of the stage, he saw the fat ex-Sumo wrestler, Ganryu, sharing a few words of concern with the referee. Yoshimitsu knew the reason.

His sword.

It had happened during the Preliminaries and the Regionals. The other contestants were worried about fighting an armed opponent when all the other fighters dealt in hand-to-hand combat.

There were other issues at stake, though, that were often brought up. Yoshimitsu was a "south-paw", he wore armor, and a mask; there were many and sundry reasons why people were either afraid to fight him or made a fuss about doing it.

From what Yoshimitsu could see, the "ref" was not going to take Ganryu's bull-crap. He hadn't with the other fighters who complained about Yoshimitsu, and he wouldn't comply for this fat oaf.

The referee ordered the two fighters to the middle of the ring, where they would be announced. While over-head, some cheesy American announcer voiced out various things about this and that, and was getting on to the introduction of the fighters, in the ring, the two were eying each other.

"So, you think you can beat this?" Ganryu said, giving his girth a confident pat. "I've squashed children who were bigger than you, and stronger too."

"Were those fights fixed as well?" Yoshimitsu responded.

An angry look came across his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ganryu said. "But nobody insults a Zaibatsu company friend, especially if it's me."

"...a natural David-and-Goliath here, folks." the announcer's voice said. "In the white corner, the monstrous behemoth: a former Sumo wrestler from right here in Japan. Ladies and gentlemen, Ganryu!"

Cheers (and boos) came from all sides, as well as some taking up the chant "Ganryu."

"In the black corner, our David. Armed not with a sling and stone, but with a sword. Give it up for the Space Ninja...Yoshiiiimitsuuu!"

It is interesting to note that fewer cheers arose when the Manji-leader was announced.

Once they were announced, the announcer's voice was replaced by a cool, Asian voice who would announce the actual events of the battle rather than just the fighters.

"Round One." the voice said.

A cage dropped around the arena, ensuring there would be no "ring outs."

Yoshimitsu stood ready, his left foot before his right. His left hand reached down to his sheath and drew out the sacred tachi of the Manji-tou. His right hand recoiled behind his left, which grasped the sword ready for action. Before him, the large Sumo put his feet apart and his hands upon his knees.

"Fight."

Ganryu charged forward. In any Sumo fight, this would bring about the usual body-to-body encounter where the two fat-men would have to try to push each other out of the ring. However, due to his opponent's size, this would surely crush the small "space ninja", even with his sword.

As the mountain of flesh charged forward, suddenly the ninja disappeared. Half-stumbling, Ganryu turned around and saw his opponent, sitting cross-legged on the side of the arena he, Ganryu, had just came from. Once again, the Sumo charged bull-like towards his opponent. And again, Yoshimitsu easily rolled to the side, avoiding the charge.

This back-and-forth charge-and-evade "dance" lasted through the whole of the first round. As soon as round one ended, the two halted while the Asian voice spoke again.

"As per the rules, if both rounds are spent and there is no winner, the match goes into sudden death."

Yoshimitsu knew what he was doing. It looked like a dance to the audience, many of whom were booing at him for not shedding blood - the blood-thirsty bastards - but it was much more than that. An array of well-timed rolls, jumps and ninjitsu kept Yoshimitsu out of reach of the mammoth Sumo wrestler. He knew he could not endure long in a hand-to-hand combat with someone larger and heavier than himself. So, rather than waste time and energy with strikes to Ganryu's large stomach, he would tire the Sumo out, and then lay into him just before Round Two ended.

"Round Two." announced the Asian voice.

Yoshimitsu eyed the Sumo carefully. He could tell from the way he was stomping even heavier than before, and the mighty heaving of his huge chest that he was getting weary of all the running about. As for himself, he wasn't even breaking a sweat. Not an easy thing to be said for one who goes about in armor.

"Fight."

Once again, the hefty Sumo wrestler plowed his way towards the Manji. Rather than some acrobatic escape, Yoshimitsu rode the blade of his sword parallel with his body and made a quick and slightly painful spin to Ganryu's left. He was out of reach, but the mammoth was just within striking range.

Yoshimitsu performed a rising knee kick that sent Ganryu stumbling back apace. Yoshimitsu then delivered a high kick with his left foot that made contact with the side of Ganryu's face. Using his right leg as a pivot, Yoshimitsu spun his body around on the spot and threw another kick at the other side of the Sumo's face. As he pivoted a third time and shot out the last kick, it met with Ganryu's wrist.

The Sumo had his arms up, hands open as palms. He was ready to rumble with this "space ninja." There was only a slight problem...he was weak from chasing him around the arena. The blow to the stomach knocked some of the wind out of him, and those kicks to the head set his eyes blurry.

Ganryu charged forward, pushing his palms outward as powerful shields of strength to deliver wide amounts of heavy damage across his opponent's body. The open palms met with nothing more than the metal of Yoshimitsu's gauntlets.

There was the opening! Yoshimitsu delivered a powerful uppercut to Ganryu's chin. Stunned and winded, Ganryu stumbled back for two steps before making a mighty fall that shook the arena floor. The referee ran to his side, and started counting.

"One...two...three..."

Still no sign of movement.

"Four...five...six..."

Yoshimitsu bore his left arm in a flexing pose before his face, the sword gleaming stainless before his mask.

"Seven...eight...nine..."

The audience was chanting with the referee.

"Ten, you're out!" he cried to Ganryu.

"K.O." announced the voice.

The room erupted in roars of triumph and amazement. Some had won much, others were very disappointed.

Yoshimitsu knew that he had been too hard on Ganryu. After all, with so many fixed fights, the bastard never had the chance to prove himself before a real opponent. Still, his other dishonorable behavior could not be unpunished.

He strode idly toward the fallen Sumo, whose eyes were just now coming into focus.

The point of the sword leered down only inches away from his eyes.

"Those who tread the path of evil..." Yoshimitsu growled. A sudden flash of silver, and Ganryu felt a pain in his forehead. Reaching up, he felt a hot, liquid substance on his fingertips. A blur of red appeared as he brought his fingers before his eyes.

"Shall be judged." the Manji concluded, wiping blood off of his blade as he returned it to its scabbard.

Ganryu fainted.

The crowd, meanwhile, had barely died down. Cheering and jeering still went on, with some arguing among themselves concerning the re-play and certain validity in regards to wagers made.

"Yoshimitsu wins." the Asian voice announced.

But Yoshimitsu was not there.

The clan made their charge down the halls of the Hon-Maru. Fortunately, the guards had been removed. Kunimitsu did her job well.

Taking a look at his map, Yoshimitsu judged that they were getting closer to the Mishima vault, where the major assets were kept. A wave of his left hand, in which the clan tachi was being held, and the others followed after them.

Left, they went down a long hallway. Several guards had been killed there. He told her to use non-lethal force. Right, the hall was empty. Right again, one fell to the fist of a Manji warrior. Left...

They were trapped.

Men in Kevlar with armor and guns surrounded them. There were too many to fight their way out, and even one so armed as Yoshimitsu would take at least a few fatal gun-shot wounds.

A voice laughed from before them.

A young man approached. He was dressed in a white gi with a black sash. He had black hair, which swooped back like an arrowhead. As soon as he appeared, there was a strange sensation that arose from Yoshimitsu's blade. It was unlike anything he had felt before: the only thing that came close to this kind of "arousal" from the sword was when he approached very evil men.

Another figure approached from the shadows.

"I'd like you to meet the future leader of the Mishima Zaibatsu." a woman's voice said.

"Traitor!" one of the Manji shouted and charged towards her. The young man stood between Kunimitsu and the Manji and delivered a blow that sent a loud cracking noise resounding throughout the room. The Manji fell dead.

"Now all I need is your sword." Kunimitsu said, as she came between the young man and her former master.

Yoshimitsu said nothing, but raised a gauntlet-covered hand and made a foul gesture with his middle finger.

"I thought you'd say as much." Kunimitsu said. "Kazuya, give me the sword."

The young man - Kazuya, was it? - strode forward and sent a fist towards the Manji leader's face. The armored hand that had flipped off the subordinate seized the fist to defend the mask. As it seized the fist, Yoshimitsu felt the surge of power from the sword. He also felt that Kazuya was incredibly powerful, possessing almost inhuman levels of strength.

Any doubt was soon broken along with Yoshimitsu's breastplate as Kazuya sent a powerful blow with his other hand into Yoshimitsu's stomach. Doubling over, a strong hand gripped his hand which held the sword and attempted to pry it open. With the other hand, Yoshimitsu drove a blow home into Kazuya's stomach. But even his armored fists couldn't stop this beast.

A knee to the groin sent Yoshimitsu to the ground face forward. A foot then pushed its way onto his back, catching him between the hard-wood floor and a foot that felt as though it was made of steel. Strong hands then seized Yoshimitsu's left arm and pulled with all their strength.

In one instant, there was a sharp sensation of pain: tearing flesh, ripping muscles, shattering bones. And then, all was still.

"I'll take that." Kunimitsu said, attempting to pry the sword out of Yoshimitsu's severed left arm that Kazuya had brought to her.

"Never!" a second Manji shouted. He then charged to attack Kunimitsu, but one of the guards shot him.

Suddenly, there was a panic.

Another contingent of guards, these ones loyal to Heihachi, must have noticed the noise and came to investigate. The defectors were gone, along with Kunimitsu and Kazuya. The rest of the Manji strike-force were gunned down while the defectors made their escape.

But Yoshimitsu would not be left for dead for the sport and amusement of Heihachi Mishima.

Taking his sword from his left hand into his right, he ran back the way he had come. Unfortunately, there were guards down that way as well. He ran in an opposite direction, but found more guards on their way from there.

He was trapped.

Or was he?

Thinking fast, Yoshimitsu charged towards one of the paper walls of the Hon-Maru. It tore under his weight, allowing him to make it into another hallway. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, straight through paper walls and wooden doors. Then he saw a window.

With all his might, he pushed off with his two legs and somersaulted through the window.

He was now soaring through the sky, on his way towards a lake.

As the cold water surrounded him, his mind started to go numb. If only his shoulder, bleeding profusely, would do the same. He was losing his focus, and the world around him started to go cloudy.

The visions had returned...


	4. The Sword

**(Author's Note: Here is the re-cap that I said I'd get to eventually. Sorry about the wait. Please review, I need to know where I'm doing right/wrong/etc.)**

**Chapter 3 - The Sword**

The sun was on its way down towards the western horizon, but still several hours remained before twilight. The warrior upon his horse trotted slowly, enjoying the beautiful afternoon. He was early on his way back to the Mountain, so he spent some time just enjoying the peace and quiet. The era of warring made that such moments of peace were rare, and the warrior enjoyed it greatly.

As he rode onward, he saw an auspicious place where there was built a shrine of the Buddhist faith.

There were many kinds of prayers in these days. The Shinto prayed to their ancestors, the missionaries, who preached the Christ-God wherever they went, prayed to His mother and the saints, and the pagans prayed to the gods of their fathers. These prayers were for many things, both mundane and essential, corporeal or heavenly.

For the young warrior, who walked the path of Buddha, prayer was a time of reflection. He did not find the faith of others to be inferior or the cause of mischief, but he had found the path of enlightenment through the Buddha, and chose to follow that path.

The warrior checked his horse, tying the reins to the branch of a nearby tree. Removing his horned helmet, the warrior then knelt at the shrine and began this chant.

"Amida, in thee I take refuge. Ocean of Oneness, Eternal Life and Light; Entrusting with mine whole heart and mind in thy Primal Vow; I am empowered by thee to live a full, Compassionate and creative life. I dedicate myself to the service of all beings, striving to help others realize their potential and Enlightenment. May your teachings guide me throughout the day, in my relationships, work and play."

The warrior then concluded with the words "Namu Amida Buddha." He bowed again, placed his helmet upon his head, returned to his horse and galloped back down the path he had left for the moment of meditation.

* * *

Twilight was at hand. The warrior was upon the borders of his land. For some reason, he had not encountered any of the warriors who often patrolled their borders. This was most unusual, for it was common for a clan to guard their borders, especially during this time of war.

Suddenly, he checked his steed. He sniffed the wind, sensing something different upon the soft gales of the forest.

Smoke.

He urged his horse onward, kicking his heels into the flanks of the beast roughly, sending the stallion off into break-neck speed. He rode in the direction of the smoke, until he found himself riding through a haze of it while darkness settled upon the earth.

It was worse than he could have imagined.

The entire village was in flames.

He rode on harder, not even bothering to think about the strength of his horse. Once he had ridden through the broken fortifications of the Manji village, the horse gave out in exhaustion, throwing the rider to the ground.

The loud neighing of the wearied horse gathered the attention of those who rode through the burning village.

Men in armor and on horseback rode towards the warrior and his fallen horse. They were armed as well.

The young man noticed they all bore the sashimonos of the Oda clan.

"Our master sends his regards." one of their captains said, dismounting off his horse.

The young man reached for his sword and drew it out, his hands shaking as he clenched the hilt.

The captain took out his own katana and brought it perpendicular with his stance.

They lunged at each other, exchanging blows as fast as lightning. The captain wore armor, which made his moves a breath slower, but the young man was exhausted. Neither were a match, but nor could they best their opponent.

Just then, a loud shot sent the young man to his knees. One of the mounted Oda soldiers held an arquebus in his arms, the barrel of which was pointed at the youngest of the fighters and still smoking.

In one swift motion, the captain brought his blade down to rest at the neck of the defeated warrior.

"What have we done?" the young man asked. "To deserve this slaughter..."

A smile flitted across the mustached face of the captain.

"Nothing." was his answer.

There was a swift motion of the blade.

A flash of blood.

And the young man let out a cry of pain, falling to the ground. His left hand grasping futily at his right shoulder.

The arm, about half-way above the elbow, had been cut off.

"Kill me," the youth said, gazing up at the man who took his arm.

"You did a very dishonorable thing by rejecting the offer of our master," the man said with a chuckle. "Why should we show honor to you?"

The warrior roared out in anger, pain; whatever kind of all-consuming rage that was close to the sensation of the loss of his arm.

One by one, the Oda warriors departed.

"COWARDS!" he cried out after them.

Even as he did, his eyes grew dim. The loss of blood was getting to his head. The smell of smoke filled his lungs and the heat of the fire was all there was to cool his chilled forehead.

The last thing he saw was a dove flying in the sky directly above him.

Then he saw no more.

* * *

Slowly his eye-sight returned, and he found himself lying under several charred boards that had been propped up as a kind of shelter. Next to him he saw a little girl and beyond her, two bodies lying prone.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Still in the village." the little girl said.

The young man rose to a kneeling stance. The pain was gone, the glare of the fires had died out. He wanted to believe it was all a bad dream. He couldn't even feel pain in his right arm.

But it was much worse than just a dream. There was no pain because there was no arm: it was now wrapped in a white cloth turned red with blood. The fire was gone, but the blackened ruins of the village was all that was left.

And those two bodies...

"The old man clings on to life, but only just..." the little girl said. "And the woman..."

The young man clawed his way with his left hand over to the bodies. He did not see the face of the man, for his attention was on the woman, whose face, aside from a few stains of black soot, was ashen white.

The woman, who was the love of this young man's life.

Iga would never be united with her husband-to-be again.

Just then, a voice murmured something from just beneath the young man. The old man was coming to life, his breath hard and scarce.

"Sensei?" the young man asked, for he saw the face of his master within the broken old man who lay beneath him.

"My son," he said, his voice now faint and almost distant. "Do not seek vengeance. The Oda...he was searching for something. But it is not here...and it will never be his."

The old man then reached out of his robes and pulled out a long tachi.

"I cannot have this," the young man said.

"Take it!" insisted the old man. "You are the last survivor of this clan. Take my sword..." The old man then reached out with the last of his strength and seized the young man by the back of his hair, so that he was looking at him. "...with your word to never wield it against another, except in the cause of justice."

The young man nodded.

"Good," the elder said, relaxing his grip on the young man. "I am at peace. I know you will not dishonor us...Yoshimitsu."

The old man smiled and closed his eyes.

It was very peaceful.

But for Yoshimitsu, there was nothing but pain. His heart was paining him as much as his arm was. Long tracks of wetness were well-worn on his cheeks from the tears he had shed.

"He is at peace now." the girl said.

"Why?" he asked. "Why did this happen?"

"The Oda are not an amicable clan," the girl said. "Their leader is a power-hungry madman. Those soldiers arrived around the village the day after you left."

"He had no intention of letting us go if we didn't accept his 'offer.'" Yoshimitsu said.

"I don't think that was the only reason he sent his soldiers to the village." she asked. Yoshimitsu saw the little girl's hand reach up and touch something on her neck.

"Why?" he asked. "What other reason could they have?" She said nothing, only looking pensively out into the West.

He put his left hand on her shoulder and turned her around to look at him.

"Answer me!"

"They were after the Sword of Heroes!" she said, almost sobbing.

He relaxed his grip on the girl's shoulder and pondered.

The Sword of Heroes. He had heard of the legend millions of times before. It went under different names in various parts of the world. Various tales and histories, wars and struggles had been waged seeking this ultimate sword. The legends told that the sword gave its possessor ultimate power, a prize desired by everyone from the greatest kings and despots to the lowliest of peasants.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"You cannot seek the Sword of Souls, Manji-tou." she said. "It is the path of damnation."

"What good is a soul in a world such as this?" the warrior asked. He then noticed the way the girl kept looking off into the west and running her fingers upon the amulet at her neck.

"You know where it is, don't you?" he asked. "Tell me where it is."

She gave him no answer, but instead started walking off on her own. Baffled, the warrior picked up his sword, sheathed it, threw a helmet haphazardly onto his head, stuffed a tattered and blackened Manji-tou sashimono under the crook of the stub of his right arm and ran after her.

"Just where do you think you're going?" he asked.

"Back home." she said.

"And where is that?" he queried. "China? Arabia? Europe? Soul Edge?"

"You are in no condition to follow me." she said.

"And you're in no condition to be going anywhere by yourself." he said. "You're just a child."

"I'm much older than I look." she said with a smile.

"Still, you need someone to protect you." he said.

"A one-armed samurai will protect me?"

"I'll learn to fight with my left hand. I'll give my life before I let anything bad happen to you."

She giggled.

"As you wish, but I cannot let you go with only one arm." She then pointed to the south-west. "Let us go to the city of Osaka. The monks of Ishiyama are friendly to strangers..." She then looked Yoshimitsu over with a nervous glance. "At least they have no love for the Oda."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"They do not recognize the rule of the samurai." she said. "It would be dangerous, however..."

"What now?"

"What we need is a carpenter."

"We can find those anywhere."

"No, a skilled one." She then reached into the small sack that hung from her side and took out a roll of parchment. Yoshimitsu picked it up and opened it up. The words made no sense, for they were in a foreign script and written backwards. The drawings, however, were of the human body, showing how muscles moved and how to replicate their movement with the appropriate machinery.

* * *

**(One thing I want to ask regarding the story structure: do you want me to pace the chapters by which time period they are in - _I.E. odd chapters in Tekken-universe and even chapters in Soul Calibur-universe - _or should they be entwined with each other as with the second chapter? Please make it known in the reviews)**


	5. The Champion

**(AN: Hello my pretties! It's been too long that I have not updated this story! Well, being that is it one of few stories that has not been reviewed yet, I can see why. Nobody really cares for Yoshimitsu except for me...what else is new?)**

**(It would have been sooner, also, if I had reliable internet between last update and now.)**

**(Okay, enough excuses. Here we go!)**

* * *

**The Champion**

Eyes slowly blinked open, finding themselves inside a cold, hard room of steel. Fluorescent lights flickered over-head and the nauseating smell of a white-wash-clean hospital-room filled his nostrils. Flashes of the Hon-Maru palace filled his mind, as well as what happened those last few moments before he lost consciousness.

"He's awake, Doctor!" a voice called out from out of the void.

A balding man's head appeared before him, glasses perched atop his beakish nose and thin, white hair hanging down from atop the head.

"Glad to see you're alive again." the old man said.

The being rose to a sitting position.

"Dr. Boskonovitch, at your service." the man said.

The right hand reached up to the mask.

"No need to concern yourself," the doctor said. "I assure you, your secret is safe with me." The doctor walked back over to his table. "Although, I've heard something about your exploits. You're something of a modern-day 'Robin Hood', stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.

"Not enough of those in this world, I'd say." Boskonovitch mused a little sadly.

The left hand started to twitch.

That was when Yoshimitsu noticed that he had his left arm again.

"I happen to be one of the leading experts in cybernetic research." Boskonovitch stated. "Your arm has been completely replaced. A nano-processor has been installed into your cerebellum, translating the voluntary impulses from your brain into electrical signals. Those signals...control your arm."

A steel claw with five fingers rose up to meet Yoshimitsu's eyes.

"Even better than your old arm," Boskonovitch continued. "This one has bullet-proof fan-shields that deploy from the arm, enough hydraulic strength to shatter diamonds, and the hand revolves a complete three-hundred-sixty degrees. Which, with that sword of yours, could create either a very deadly blade-shield, or the lift of a small helicopter."

Almost instinctively, the hand spun around on its wrist-axle.

"If there's anything I can get for you," the Doctor continued in his thick, Russian accent. "Please, don't hesitate to ask."

The low frequency hum of electricity in the room, the sound of a heart monitor beeping, small gears whirring in Yoshimitsu's arm and the clicking of keys from Dr. Boskonovitch's assistant were all the sounds in the room.

"Tournament..." the deep, electronically enhanced voice almost growled.

"Huh?" asked a bemused Doctor. "The King of Iron Fist Tournament ended almost a year ago. The try-outs for the second one are almost under-way."

The ringing of a phone echoed from the room.

"It's for you, Doctor!" the other voice called out.

"Excuse me for a minute, will you?"

Yoshimitsu nodded, and Dr. Boskonovitch walked off to take care of the caller.

While the Doctor was away, Yoshimitsu's eyes scanned the room in which he was housed. Though it looked like any other hospital room, there was something about this that seemed a little less-than-standard.

Like the operating room of a dilapidated community hospital, whose renter did a poor job keeping this one room half-way clean for patients.

Yoshimitsu then noticed the Doctor's voice changing as he spoke on the phone.

The sound of the phone hanging up resounded in the room.

"That was the boss," Boskonovitch said, his voice dripping with sadness. He turned then to his guest. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave us. You're not exactly welcomed in Mishima Zaibatsu, after all."

"The boss?" Yoshimitsu asked.

"Kazuya." answered the Doctor. "He won the first tournament, and seized control of all of the Mishima Zaibatsu."

Yoshimitsu now had a new target.

The vengeful son of Heihachi Mishima.

"Now get out of here!" cried Dr. Boskonovitch.

Yoshimitsu leapt out of the window, when one of the fan-blades came out of his left-wrist, digging into the side of the building.

He was now hanging from the side of the building by his arm like some kind of insect.

Just outside of sight of the window.

But not outside of hearing range.

"Oh, Alisa! My dear, I'm so sorry!"

It was the Doctor who was speaking.

Yoshimitsu had heard that kind of voice before, the cries of the broken-hearted.

Dr. Boskonovitch had lost one dear to his heart.

And it made him sad as well.

* * *

Sign-up was not much different than it had been the previous year.

Though the leader of the Manji-tou was surprised that he was unconscious for so long, and that the Manji hadn't forgotten about him, he was also surprised at the many new faces he had seen in the crowd at the sign-up.

As before, he kept to the shadows.

Just then, his senses began to become cloudy.

_Not again_, he thought.

But there was something different about it.

Before, each time the visions assaulted him, he found himself debilitated.

Now, he was strangely calm.

It was like being surrounded in a light fog.

* * *

The fog was gone, and he found himself on a ship on the ocean.

As usual, he was covered in a hood and cloak to keep his identity secret.

He wished that damnable girl wouldn't keep running off from his sight.

First she vanished after the visit to the monks. Her excuse was that she was looking for a vessel for their journey.

Their journey to the west.

Though he did not often go top-side, today would be different.

Something or other drew him to the surface again.

The sun was hot in the mid-day sky.

Too hot for a cloak and hood.

Some of the sailors and passengers were milling about idly on the boat.

He stayed off to the side by himself. He didn't actively take large roles in things, just watching from the side-lines.

Waiting for his queue to help or provide council.

Right now, council was hardly needful.

One of the sailors was drunk and wobbling about deck uneasily. He bumped into a man who was sitting down, meditating. The drunken sailor swore at his own foot for causing him to stumble, then he caught eye of the man.

"Hey," the sailor mused. "Is that what I think it is?"

He was pointing to something that lay next to the man's side.

A sashimono.

"That's the emblem of the Murakami clan," the inebriated sailor said, pointing to the sashimono. "Isn't it?"

"_Hai._" the meditating man said, nodding sharply. His eyes were still focused towards the ocean, away from the man.

"Then I'm sure you've heard of the Great Fool of Bizen, eh?"

This brought several chortles from both the sailor and those around him.

Yoshimitsu was behind the times, it seemed.

"Is it true," the drunken man continued. "That he fought Tanegashima with his sword and lost?"

"I heard he almost killed himself, the fool." laughed another sailor.

"If you ask me," a large sailor roared in a bear-like voice. "The Bizen fool deserves to commit _seppukku_ for behaving so dishonorably."

All the sailors took up the laughter.

Yoshimitsu, however, wanted to know who this 'Bizen fool' was, and what he had done to earn that hideous perjorative.

"I heard that the fool of Bizen," the drunken man said, as he swayed around the sitting man. "Swore his allegiance to the Murakami clan. Have you heard of him, stranger?"

The man said nothing, but his head bowed slightly.

"Answer me, pig!" shouted the sailor.

Still, nothing.

"What the hell is your problem?" queried the drunk angrily. With one hand, he reached down to grab the stranger's face and make him look at him.

In his drunken haze, his hand fell instead upon what was lying in the stranger's lap.

A bare katana.

Yoshimitsu could tell by the way the stranger's head suddenly twitched...

The drunken sailor had done wrong.

He was pushed back suddenly, falling upon a coil of rope.

One of the other sailors ran towards the stranger, but a foot kicked him back.

Now the fat one picked up a spear and was approaching the stranger.

There was a sudden flash of light and the fat sailor gave a cry of pain, stumbling back, his hands over a thin, blood-red line across his girth.

Now the stranger was standing upright.

Yoshimitsu noticed that he was wearing a loose robe of white and dark blue pants.

His sandaled feet carried him over to the drunken sailor.

His katana, now residing in his hand, dug its slanted point into the hand of the drunk sailor.

"Never touch," the stranger said slowly, through clenched teeth. "My sword again!"

"Who...who are you, stranger?" asked the drunk, sobbing as the blade tore through the many nerve-endings in his hand.

The blade quickly rose from the drunken sailor's hand, but rested upon his neck to keep him from moving.

"The name's Mitsurugi," the stranger said. "Remember it!"

He re-sheathed his katana and walked down below deck, as if nothing had happened.

* * *

**(Horay for one of SC's favorite characters appearing!)**

**(Yes, there will be many appearances from various characters from Soul Calibur and Tekken in this story other than the main character - if you didn't know that already, you really should re-read. However, I will not go out of my way to make every character appear in this story. The Japanese characters from the _Soul_ series will definitely appear (how else do they get to mainland Eurasia?), that much I can reveal. What else I can reveal is that everything that goes on, including what happens when Yoshimitsu has the flash-backs, is for a reason, and they all tie in with the _Tekken_-Yoshimitsu...I just haven't figured out how to make that connection. [your input is welcome, btw.])**

**(Now I've got to go, and hope the muse returns for a new chapter. Will probably end up 86-ing the "Chapter #" at the beginning of each chapter and just use the name. Much less words to keep track of. Now review!)**

**(I know its shameless and wrong, but I think _Boskovitch_ rolls off the tongue better than _Boskonovitch_. I don't care if the game-creators made it _Boskonovitch_ to begin with, it's a freaking choppy name. Just my little two-cents on the matter)**


	6. The Light

**(AN: Horay, we gets an interview! Unfortunately, this will be the only way to reply to you, Miss _Ominous_ [I'm in us! lol, _Metallica_ ftw!]. I plan on going out with this story, but so far, a coherent adventure has been evading me in the thought process - both in this story and in others. But I will try to bring something out. Here is a new chapter, where our hero meets three very important people.)**

**(This happens to be the most that new Yoshimitsu talks! lol. He's supposed to be the silent type, but he has a reason to start talking in this chapter, as you will see.)  
**

* * *

**The Light**

He woke again, finding himself in a humble, plain-looking apartment room. Somewhere still in Japan, that much was certain. He could hear distant voices speaking in their native tongue, the one that was familiar to him. He noticed the woman standing in the doorway, looking a little surprised at his visage. That was typical...

But who was she?

"You're awake," the woman said. "If you plan on doing any of that again, I don't think it's a good idea to do that in public. Someone could rip you off."

"Like you?"

"I left everything on you just as I found it." she returned.

He turned and, through his electronically-enhanced vision, he saw a beautiful young woman sitting meekly on the other bed in the apartment. She was dressed in plain clothes, all in white, and had her hair worn down, shoulder-length and a white hair-band in her hair.

"Why are you staring at me?" she asked. _Have I been staring?_

"You are a pure soul," he spoke at last. "There aren't many of those left in this world. Pay no heed to those who would despise your goodness. They do so out of the wickedness of their hearts, in a foolish, vain attempt to make themselves feel better about their inadequacies."

"Uh, thanks, I think." she nervously sighed. "Listen, could we at least start from the beginning? My name is Jun."

He noticed that she held out her hand. So she was one of the new generation, too European they were, with all their touching and everything. Things had definitely changed.

"Yoshimitsu," he returned.

"Not _the_ Yoshimitsu," she marveled. "I've heard about you, but thought you were only a legend."

In one swift move, the sword was out and just an inch away from Jun's nose.

"Real enough for you?" he asked.

She nodded, and the sword was returned to its scabbard.

"You signed up for Tournament?" he asked, turning his face towards the door.

"_Hai_," she replied.

"What is a good soul doing in a place of such corruption?"

"Saving someone from that corruption."

"He's given himself over to hate, Jun," he said. "There's nothing you can do."

"I don't believe it," she resolved. "I know there's good in him. I feel it!"

Yoshimitsu turned around to view her. He could sense a light, a warm calming essence, emanating from her. That, it seemed, was the calm that he had experienced when he fainted in the sign-up for the Tournament. But could he control it? Place himself in a trance and thereby bring the images back on to learn why they were coming to him?

He noticed from his HUD display that his homing signal was active. The higher-than-hearing beeping was going off in his helmet. It must have accidentally triggered when he fainted. He reached up to his mask to switch it off, then discovered that he was getting strange readings from where Jun was standing. It was not her essence that he detected, but something else, something permeating the middle portion of her body that his read-out could only just barely detect.

"You should withdraw," he said to her. "Don't put yourself in undo danger."

"He needs to be saved," she added.

He said nothing, but turned to walk out the door. Her path was a good one, though misguided. It would not help to force her to withdraw. That he could not do.

"You know," Jun mused. "I figured you were kind of the silent type. Any idea why you suddenly opened up to me?"

His masked face turned slightly over his shoulder, as if to gaze at her without completely turning around.

"Maybe you've given me reason to speak." he suggested. Without another word, he pried open the door and left the hotel apartment.

* * *

He had undergone meditative trances before, dozens of times, in fact. In such trances, strange things happened to his body. He was able to mold his body according to his needs, able to take blows that would otherwise kill someone, or create a kind of healing aura that bathed his body in times of need, or even force a stench more foul than the worst _halitosis_ to be used as dragon's fire against his enemies.

Now he did not need weapons or healing or survival. Now he needed the memories. He knew that they happened whenever he held the sword, that much he had quickly figured out. But why were they coming? What did they mean, and how did that affect him here and now, in the time where he belonged?

Memories...visions...fading, just like the world around him...

...

Constantinople. Once the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, the center of the world, the gateway to the East. Now it lay in the hands of the Saracen. Yet even here, so far from the temples and shrines of the Island Kingdom, the rumors abounded. Hideous creatures, mutants, cults dedicated to evil gods that demanded human sacrifices, and in the midst of this chaos, the Sword of Heroes was mentioned.

Hither Yoshimitsu had come, with the young girl in tow. But she was not the light, not some pure thing as he had once believed. All throughout their journey, as they passed the many lands and saw the devastation that these rumors spoke of in truth, Yoshimitsu came to realize that this sword was nothing that any mortal should be wielding. Already, the power of this blade in the hands of a mortal was being revealed. If left in mortal hands any longer, it would be the unmaking of the world.

And he noticed the girl change. With every mile they moved west, she began to grow. Yet her growth was unnatural, for she grew quickly and unlike human children normally did. As a little child she had been in the Island Kingdoms: now in Constantinople, she was almost a woman.

He knew that there was nothing natural about what was happening. Just as there had been nothing natural about the _kunoichi_ they had met in Samarkand. She it was that led them here, where she said her friend awaited her. Once they met up, they would make the final march westward, to the city east of the Rhine river, the source of all the evil in this land.

He stood upon a tall building, within sight of the Great Chain and the Hagia Sophia. The girl was with him, but he as of yet waited for the _kunoichi_.

"You're good, _manji_," a voice said in his native tongue. It was feminine. "But the _Fu-ma_ are better."

"Misdirection and stealth are not always the best tools for earning the trust of the people," he returned.

"You're treating the symptoms," she returned. "Give the people food and water for a day, the evil ones will still take it away from them. No, you must fix the solution first."

"They _are_ the solution," Yoshimitsu returned. She simply snorted, then spoke something to the person next to her.

Yoshimitsu turned and saw an attractive young woman. She must have had some European in her blood, for her skin was fairer than most of the Greeks here in Constantinople and her hair was a fair shade of gold. Yet when he looked at her, he could sense a serenity about her, one that he did not expect to be coming from another human.

The light.

"This is Sophitia," the _kunoichi_ said, indicating to the young woman. "She's going to the castle in the West."

"You mean she's going _with_ us?" the Manji warrior asked.

"She is my _tomodachi_," the _kunoichi_ replied. "I won't let her come to harm."

He turned to the young woman. In her eyes he could see pain, such as he had never known. A pain both physical and emotional, so strong that it was like to crush the last vestiges of sanity within her. How she was holding it all together was beyond even his comprehension.

"I've seen things," he admitted, speaking to both the _kunoichi_ and the young woman in Greek. "Evil things, along the road here. It's no place for you."

"I've fought the Evil Sword before," the _kunoichi_ answered.

"As for me," the young woman said, speaking at last. "I care not what happens to me, as long as I can save my children."

Beneath her hooded cowl, Yoshimitsu saw, for the briefest of seconds, the base of her neck. A diagonal slash had been cut mere inches away from being fatal. It was an old wound, scarred over and now a trophy of her victory. Yet this trophy was not like the one that sat upon Yoshimitsu's right arm, the lack of the rest of that appendage. That was just a constant physical and visual reminder of his loss.

But as he looked upon that near close-call of a scar, he could feel another presence astir. Looking around, he saw the young woman that _he_ had brought, or who had followed him out this way, acting particularly nervous and on edge.

"Steady." he whispered in her direction.

"So," the _kunoichi_ said at last. "Can I count on your support?"

"_Hai_," he replied unwaveringly.

* * *

**(AN: Okay, in case you were wondering, the little girl [who's been growing up at an alarming rate the farther west they go, in case you've forgotten] is important. You will see once we reach Ostrheinsburg in the past incarnation.)**

**(As far as how the flash-backs tie in with the present Yoshimitsu, that will be dawning shortly.)**


	7. The Friend

**(AN: Sorry for the wait.)  
**

* * *

**The Friend**

Someone he had befriended, the one who had given him his new arm, was now missing. There was not enough evidence for the Tokyo Police Department, but he knew that the Mishima Zaibatsu, now in the hands of Kazuya Mishima, was responsible for Dr. Boskovitch's disappearance. Now he was on a quest to infiltrate the Mishima Zaibatsu and rescue Dr. B before he was shipped off to an undisclosed location.

He was in the Mishima compound, right above the arena where the Second King of Iron Fist tournament was now under way. The 'light' whose name was Jun had thrown herself into the tournament, the 'arms of death' as he had called it; she may be down there, endangering the secret within her body at this very moment. In one quick move, he could cut through the air duct and land down in the ring and rescue her.

But his vision was going. The air duct seemed to be breathing, shrinking and growing every moment. He could sense a silent scream, as though something was terribly wrong. Carefully, he drew out his _katana_ and all at once, the screaming became audible. It was coming from the sword. He knew it had the ability to sense the presence of evil, but why was it acting this way?

"Show me what is hidden from my sight," he demanded.

* * *

All at once, the visions came on him again. Only this time, he was not caught up in them as in a swooning trance. Now he was awake and alert, looking through the eyes of a masked samurai. Before him lay a great river, with a large island in the middle: straddling that island was a castle of stone, built in the European fashion.

The land, however, was dying. The very forces of nature had been distorted and mutilated, until one could not possibly live here for at least a hundred years. He could feel it eating away at him, making him weaker and weaker.

At his side was the young woman, now fully grown. A smile was on her face, as if this evil distortion was pleasing to her.

"What is this?" he spoke, though he did not mean to speak.

"Fool!" the woman shouted. "You've walked right into a trap!"

Whether the transition indeed was painful, or, by some malignant will of the Hero Sword, the woman let out a blood-curdling scream. Before his eyes, she began to bleed out of every pore, as if her voice was causing her to bleed. Then the skin began to fall away like mud broken apart by the rushing water. Now she was nothing more than a pool of blood, sitting upon the cracked, dying earth.

It stunned him to the core and froze his blood in his veins, but he could not stop it. Then, even as he was trying to comprehend this horrendous image, the blood began to rise from the ground, as though it were pouring in reverse. He drew out his katana with his wooden hand (why was it wooden?) and slashed at the blood. It vanished, but even as he was leaving, he could feel something was not right.

* * *

Now he was back in the air ducts of the Mishima Zaibatsu. He continued on his way, checking the radio traffic on his helmet for where the doctor might be kept. Even still, he found himself being bewildered by what was happening in his brain.

Kenji.

He didn't know where it came from, but he knew it had to be important. Maybe he would ask Dr. Boskovitch about it after he...

"...being shipped to the facility today..." sounded over the radio. He had no time to lose! He climbed up a vertical duct and smashed his way up onto the roof. Already, he saw, the helicopter was taking off. The HUD in his helmet zoomed in to have a closer look at the occupants of the helicopter.

One of them was Dr. Boskovitch.

Moving faster than humanly possible, he ran to the edge of the building then leaped off and grabbed onto the landing rail of the helicopter with his left hand: his mechanical hand. He swung one leg up over the rail and was now climbing into the cockpit. He delivered a swift punch to one of the guards, knocking him out instantly. He took Dr. Boskovitch with his right hand, and then jumped out of the helicopter, the doctor shouting in his ear as they plummeted down towards the city of Tokyo.

Suddenly, the left arm draws out the sword and starts spinning around above his head. They caught the wind and slowly came to rest on the roof of a building.

"Oh," the doctor breathed in relief when his feet were back on the ground. "Thank you, I...I don't know how you did it, but thank you." He then looked up and saw that the helicopter was coming back around towards the building. "Hey, what about them?"

A beeping sound came from somewhere within the helmet, and suddenly the helicopter exploded in a great ball of fire.

"Perhaps we should find someplace to hide," the doctor said. "Someplace out of the open?"

"_Hai_," he responded.

* * *

In a safe-house of the Manji-tou, the clan leader and Dr. Boskovitch were recovering from the daring rescue mission in the midst of a forest somewhere outside of Tokyo. The quiet was relaxing for all of them, and the Manji-tou leader was less susceptible from the visions.

"I should thank you once again," Dr. Boskovitch said. "Uh, what will you do after this?"

"Kenji..."

"I beg your pardon, comrade?"

"Nothing," the cybernetic ninja replied. "You are free to do as you will."

The doctor said nothing more, but the Manji-tou leader was trying to make sense of what he had seen in the tunnels of the Mishima Zaibatsu. Something was being planned, he recalled. His sword was missing, and something important about Kenji. But this made no sense. The only one he knew who desired his _ka__tana_ was his former subordinate, Kunimitsu. Perhaps Kenji was someone she had taken up with to...

Of course, all this was ridiculous, since he saw the sword hanging from his belt. But still, it _might_ happen...

* * *

**(AN:/)**


	8. The Subordinate

**(AN: Hello again. I just need to say that it has been a LONG ass time since I stopped writing this story. It just lost interest for me and I don't know why. Maybe because both _Tekken VI_ and _Soul Calibur V_ tanked or because my _Soul Calibur_ fics started getting better and better and this still looks like a newbie's crappy MS-filled ramblings [which will be a jar for you readers when you see this chapter that is better written, more descriptive and much LONGER]. Maybe I just lost a sense of direction for this story, because there isn't much that I feel I can do for Yoshimitsu without going too far.)**

**(Also this chapter is going to be different than it originally was going to be because some a-hole stole my flash-drive with EVERYTHING on it...TWICE! So I lost everything, including my laptop and internet access. So updates will not be frequent but I will try to figure out what to do with this story.)**

**(Like with my _Soul Calibur_ fics, they all occur in the same universe and are, more or less, tied together. So I just want to reiterate that the events of _Soul Calibur_ II through IV happen roughly in the year 1591. This is mostly for me to keep my thoughts together.)**

* * *

**The Subordinate**

The good doctor had been rescued and the cyborg ninja was now resting in a forest. He usually came to this place for peace, when his mind was overcrowded. This seemed to be happening quite frequently of late, which bothered him. Even with years of discipline in the arts of _ninjitsu_ and the use of a katana, a clear head was always needed whenever he went on a raid on some corrupt CEO like the Mishima Zaibatsu, or even when he got into a fight. The sword, the emblem of the Manji-tou, had also begun to play a role in the clouding of his thoughts.

More than a mental issue, it had also become a physical one as well. His cybernetic arm was still functioning properly, all pistons and hydraulics cleaned and responding as quickly as they should be. But there was something more to this as well. He felt it when he broke through the chopper to rescue Dr. Boskovitch: he was dying. How long exactly it would be until he succumbed he did not know. He didn't even know how old he was now, or if he was still healthy: his age had long since been forgotten. But each year since he received his prosthetic arm, he knew that things were not as they should be. More and more fatigues, more and more weakness, more and more cybernetic parts being added to replace parts of him that were slowly dying off.

He needed the meditation to leave it all behind and center himself once again.

In the glade he sat, cross-legged, with the sword lying upon his knees. It had been a long week since the daring rescue during the Second King of Iron Fist Tournament. His mind wandered and, over and over, something began to appear in his thoughts. Not an image as before, but a name, a name which he had known and yet he didn't truly know. It was something so important and yet he knew almost nothing about it.

_Shinzo_...

* * *

It had been a long time since the encounter in Istanbul. While the Greek Holy Warrior had gone her way, he had had to wait in this city, the Queen of Cities it seemed, stretching from one end of the Bosporus to the other by way of a great chain, for the others. Though he had left Japan alone, when he arrived in Samarkand, roughly two thirds of the way to this place, he was not alone. The destruction he had seen along the Great Silk Road and the rumor of the lives taken by this Sword of Heroes had left him dumb-founded. Here he was, off to kill a great evil by using a great evil.

_Heaven's judgment_, he thought to himself. _Shall come to the one who uses evil to end his own suffering._

To that end, by the time he had reached the city once known as Constantinople, he had gathered a few people to his side in a small band of sorts. They were outcasts, warriors, some of them expert thieves or outlaws, but wherever they went, suffering ended. For, while on his journey, Yoshimitsu realized that even if he had the Sword and slew Nobunaga, the suffering he had caused would not be ended merely by his death. There would always be some _shogun_ with lofty ambitions and a disregard for the meek and lowly. And he, Yoshimitsu, would be there, with his band, named in honor after the clan he had lost: _Manji-tou_. These thieves and bandits were his retinue, men and women from across the great deserts of the east: Japanese, Mandarin, Mongols, Khazars, Arabs, Europeans. All of them had been helped in some way by him and now they would help him. But it would not have been possible without his friend, someone from the islands of Japan like him, whom he had named as his lieutenant.

_Shinzo_.

And so Yoshimitsu waited and waited until Shinzo brought the rest of the clan to Istanbul secretively. They were the support that he had promised the _kunoichi_ that day on the roof-tops. If, as the rumors said, the Sword of Heroes could leave whole armies slain in its devastation, it would be folly to go up alone against it. They met late at night in the courtyard of one of the local _han_s, as they called a tavern here. Yoshimitsu was not wearing his battle gear, but his mask was upon his face and a hood and cloak concealing his form. He waited exactly where he said he would be, wondering why Shinzo was taking his time.

At last the young man appeared. He was clad in heavily worn and sand-beaten clothes that showed he had crossed the same world as his master had. He was young and bore no facial hair, but his long black hair was tied behind his head like a horse's tail beneath his hood. He approached the hooded figure calmly and confidently, approached at least two paces space between them and then bowed.

"_Sensei_," Shinzo greeted. "I have come as you requested."

"Thou hast done well," Yoshimitsu replied. "Are the others gathered together?"

"Yes, _sensei_," Shinzo nodded.

"Well and good, Shinzo," Yoshimitsu nodded. "Gird thy loins about thy waist and make ready the others. Ere this night ends, we shall march on the East Rhine fortress."

"A moment, _sensei_," Shinzo spoke up. "I have but one question to ask."

"Name it."

"The _Manji_ are thieves, not soldiers," Shinzo said. "Why are we then attacking this castle in the west?"

"There lurketh much evil in yonder castle," replied the master. "I perceive that this be the hiding place of the Sword of Heroes, the blade of the curse: _Souru Ejji_."

Shinzo blanched for a moment, but did not falter. _A stout heart this one hath_, thought Yoshimitsu.

"Will it indeed be a help to the people if we confront this great evil, _sensei_?" Shinzo asked.

"_Hai_," came the answer in one word.

"But how?" Shinzo asked. "We have both trod the same road from Osaka to this place, we both know the legends about _Souru Ejji_. How can we, a mere band of forty, hope to challenge such an evil all by ourselves?"

Yoshimitsu chuckled grimly. "Thy fears are well-intended but needless. Ours is not to take the castle by strength of arms, but to assist should the ones who shall do the attacking require our aid. Take heart, Shinzo, for we are on the path of the virtue."

* * *

**(AN: I would say "can you guess who x person is?" but since _Soul Calibur V_ has already come out, much of the mystery behind Yoshimitsu is killed [another reason I lost interest in the story, maybe?]. Apart from spoiling what will happen - both in this and in a potential _Soul Calibur VI_ fic - I haven't got a name for it, but my brother and I have been creating characters with back-stories for it [that's something we _do_ agree on: _SCV_ sucked], yeah, _SCV_ sucks and it's just really bad. I don't know what they did gameplay-wise but it feels really unbalanced. Like even if you had a giant character who was slow, you could still take out the opposition if you knew that character well enough in previous _Soul Calibur_ games. But in _Soul Calibur V_, the douche-bag Patroklos [he is NOT a protagonist since he takes delight in killing the innocent] trumps everyone, even when he is playing as Setsuka rip-off. Also the story sucks and half of the good characters were cut out and the music is kind of bland and forgettable. In short, Daishi Odashima and the other game designers at NAMCO-Bandai pulled a Steven Moffat.)**

**(This chapter also clocks in as one of my shortest to date, but don't worry, the next chapter will continue the past "flash-back" a bit more.)**


End file.
